We who have listened to silences abort
before they were diagnosed
as stream-flow of seminal blood
out of tune with monthly cycles…
we who have collected clouds
that eventually burst into storms
and left us aghast as our crops
became feeders to ocean bound streams…
we who can point to fragments of kites
and strands of thread
entangled on high voltage cables
as evidence of our dispersed dreams…
we who can smell the stench of dead pigeons
by the waterless fountains of our memorial squares
as evidence of the death of the in
in our independence…
we who have danced at festivals of arts
while cripples from new tribes
walk around on stilts and trample
our pre-harvest fields of crops to death…
let us remember
how men of parliament vacationed the electorate,
bandits demanded donations with which to refill
treasuries they had looted into family pots,
and power dissolved the people…
let us remember
how men, feline skunks, bury their insides sub rosa
forgetful of bamboo groves whose sacred flutes will grow
to play the tunes they plant into beachsand
and manifest the ugly lump on the king’s crowned head
which he forbids his barber to proclaim before the people
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